


memory lane

by 49percentchanceofbees



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, Light-Hearted, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Nonbinary Hawke (Dragon Age), Other, Partners in Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2019-11-12 03:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18002873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49percentchanceofbees/pseuds/49percentchanceofbees
Summary: As far as waking up with no memory of the previous evening went, Hawke could think of much worse options than coming to in a luxurious four-poster bed next to a gorgeous elf.One morning, four of Kirkwall's best and brightest wake up with no memory of the night before -- or the last eight years. Fenris assumes foul play, Anders regrets his decisions, Varric has a lot of catching up to do, and Hawke just wants to get home.





	1. Chapter 1

As far as waking up with no memory of the previous evening went, Hawke could think of much worse options than coming to in a luxurious four-poster bed next to a gorgeous elf.

For a long while they lay there, warm and content, thinking not at all as they watched the rising sun move across the floor and cast golden shafts across their apparent lover’s skin. The elf slept peacefully, pressed against Hawke’s side, his head on their shoulder. Eventually it occurred to them that those strips of light were getting awfully long and bright. From this Hawke sleepily remembered that they did, in fact, have obligations that might prevent them from lying in bed all day, no matter how comfortable they were. Slowly they realized that among the things they could not recall from last night was whether they were on leave or were supposed to report back in the morning. From this rose a vague picture of the things their sergeant would say and do if Hawke were tardy or disheveled or, Maker forbid,  _ missing _ at roll call, and this woke them completely.

“Oh, shit,” Hawke muttered, gently pushing the elf’s head off their shoulder and trying to retrieve their arm from under him without waking him. That did not work: his eyes flickered open, first drowsily, then with more focus, and then what appeared to be anger. He sat bolt upright, the movement almost convulsive, which at least freed Hawke’s arm.

“What --” the elf said, looking around with something like disgust. He grabbed hold of the sheet’s edge and then hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure whether to throw it off or clutch it to his chest.

Hawke stood, casting around for their gear.  _ Very nice room, no sign of my stuff. Shit. _ “Sorry to run like this, but I’d better get back to camp before anyone notices I’m gone and starts throwing around words like  _ dereliction of duty _ and  _ desertion _ . I don’t suppose you remember where I left my armor?”

The elf stared at Hawke as if they’d asked him to map the Black City. Hawke sighed and went to the wardrobe instead. Ah, good. Full of perfectly adequate clothing that even looked like it’d fit -- they wouldn’t have to search for their things or make the following dash back to the army camp in their smallclothes.

Hearing movement behind them as they grabbed a shirt and kilt, Hawke looked back to see the elf grab a dagger from a sheath hanging on the side of the bed, holding it like he very much knew how to use it, illegal as that might be. (But who cared? Hawke would start telling other people not to carry weapons the day they threw away theirs: exactly never.)

“That bad, huh?” Hawke said sadly. “About the clothes, I just wanted to borrow --”

“Whatever game you’re playing,” the elf said, voice glacial, “it’s over.”

Abandoning modesty, he stood. He was rather muscular for an elf, Hawke couldn’t help noticing, those white lines curling elegantly across his skin. More importantly, he looked entirely ready to gut Hawke like a fish. There was an axe -- not Hawke’s, enchanted and expensive, but perfectly serviceable -- in a rack behind them, but that would only escalate the situation, even if Hawke managed to reach it in time. From the way the elf’s eyes moved, he’d seen it too. Besides, meeting a six-inch knife with a six-foot battleax seemed like overkill.

“No games.” Dropping the clothes, Hawke spread their hands placatingly. “I have to confess, I don’t actually remember how we got here. Figured I really tested my alcohol tolerance last night.”

The elf shook his head, instantly dismissing Hawke’s explanation. “A likely story.”

“And if I were lying, I’d pick a likelier one.” Hawke gave him a friendly smile.

“Whoever you serve, whatever you did to me --”

“King Cailan,” Hawke provided. “And I  _ promise, _ I am not the type. Look, I don’t want to fight you; I just want to get back to my regiment. If you’ll let me put some clothes on, I will gladly get out of your hair. Blight, I’ll leave in my smallclothes, if you insist.”

The elf hesitated, and while he did, someone rapped politely on the door. Both he and Hawke froze; from the look in his eyes, he shared Hawke’s overwhelming feeling that they were  _ not _ supposed to be here.

“Master? I’ve brought breakfast.”

The elf looked at Hawke with sudden anger and suspicion, though of what, Hawke had no idea. Hawke, meanwhile, glanced at the window, wondering if they could get out that way. No: too high and narrow. They could try the door, pushing past the servant outside, but in their smallclothes? Better to try and stick around long enough to get dressed. 

If no one responded, would the servant outside assume her master still slept and leave, or would she come in to check on them? Could Hawke convince or bribe a startled servant to keep quiet? Probably not, if she saw the knife. Besides, Hawke had no coin; presumably their funds were with the rest of their things.

“Tell her to leave,” the elf hissed.

_ You tell her _ , Hawke almost retorted, but his voice  _ was _ more distinctive than Hawke’s. Instead they whispered, “Probably better to just stay quiet.”

The elf shook his head. “Do it.”

“Fine. Your knife, your rules.”  _ Master _ , not  _ mistress _ , so a man, probably. Hawke pitched their voice accordingly. “Come back later!”

A moment’s fraught silence. How would they know if the servant had gone away? After about a minute, the elf moved to the door, never taking his eyes off Hawke or lowering the knife. He listened at the door for a moment, then locked it from the inside.

“She’s gone?” Hawke whispered. The elf nodded, and Hawke let out a sigh of relief. “Not your place, then?”

It wasn’t overly prejudiced, Hawke hoped, to acknowledge that there were virtually no elves in Ferelden wealthy enough to own this place -- or who would be socially permitted to do so even if they had the coin. They’d thought maybe he was a servant, sneaking into one of the spare bedchambers for a night’s fun.

But his manner had long since disproven that theory, and he shook his head, speaking for the first time with what might have been a note of humor: “Not yours?”

“I can only dream.” Taking a risk, with the knife still out, Hawke bent down and picked up the discarded clothing. “I’m going to get dressed now. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stab me.”

“Most people would,” the elf replied. Well, it wasn’t an objection; Hawke started pulling on the kilt. They glanced up at the sound of soft footsteps: the elf crossed the room to a neatly-folded pile of leathers on a chair and started getting dressed himself, setting the knife down on the chair. So his gear was here but Hawke’s wasn’t -- Hawke felt a surge of jealousy. He’d get to face whatever brought them here in armor, while their skirt barely reached the knees.

Of course, Hawke also noted that this would have been the time to go for the knife -- or the axe -- while he was all tangled in laces and buckles. No doubt this had occurred to him too, as he kept his eyes on Hawke as much as possible while he dressed.  _ I hope he enjoys the show _ , Hawke thought, amused rather than offended. But even if he had been fully distracted, Hawke didn’t plan to provoke him, not when they were getting along so well.

Besides, soon Hawke found themself distracted, as they began to tug on the shirt and then stopped, struck by the sight of their own chest.

“Well, that’s new,” they said aloud.

The elf made an inquiring grunt as he stretched to lace up the back of his own shirt, but Hawke didn’t respond, too busy staring at the long scars stretching across their torso. Thick vertical lines, slightly reddish, running down their chest as if they’d been impaled: Hawke guessed that it would have taken a hearty dose of magic to survive such wounds. And, as Hawke looked over their body with new attention, there were other unfamiliar scars too, though none stood out nearly as much.

Hawke finished dressing, thoughts whirling as they took a pair of boots from the wardrobe. Those scars hadn’t come from a night of carousing -- they looked old, probably years old. Hawke had been getting into fights since childhood; they had lots of scars. But they certainly hadn’t sustained those injuries without noticing. So why didn’t they remember them?

_ Maybe I took a blow to the head.  _ Could that cause Hawke to forget entire events in their life? Cut the event out so cleanly that they didn’t even know what was gone? They’d forgotten not just the injury itself but the entire healing process, the very existence of the scars -- every time they must have looked at them in the mirror, glanced across them as they dressed. If they could forget something like that, what else might be missing?

The elf’s behavior had already suggested that this was not simply a drunken tryst, though he could have been mad. But now Hawke had clear evidence that something much stranger was going on.  _ Unless I’m mad, too,  _ Hawke thought with humor. Always a possibility.

They finished lacing their boots and turned to their new companion, who was also fully dressed now, watching Hawke as he tested the articulation of his gauntlets. Those things looked sharp: he might not even need the knife anymore, though he had picked it back up anyway.

“I think I’m going to steal that axe, if you don’t mind,” Hawke said, feeling the tension in the room increase as they spoke.

“I’m afraid I do,” the elf said, deathly polite. His eyes glittered as he adjusted his grip on the knife. “Not the thievery, but I object to being out-armed.”

_ I have boots and he’s wearing sandals. I could stomp on his feet, then grab the knife while he’s dealing with a broken instep. _ Hawke could practically see “try it” written over the elf’s face. Instead, they spread their hands peacefully. “I understand that, but I object to being unarmed, particularly when I don’t know what’s going on. If you want to take the axe and give me that dinky little knife, that’d be an improvement, at least.”

The elf considered this, glancing between Hawke and the axe with narrowed eyes. “Full of helpful ideas, aren’t you?”

Hawke shrugged and smiled winningly. “I try.”

The elf crossed to the axe, examining it closely, as if he expected it to be booby-trapped. Well, for all Hawke knew, it was. Finally he strapped it to his back. Hawke struggled not to smile:  _ That weapon’s almost larger than he is. _

Without warning, he tossed the dagger to Hawke, hilt-first. They caught it safely and said, mostly joking, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to throw knives around?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” Hawke retrieved the dagger’s sheath from the side of the bed and tied it onto their belt. Then they glanced around the room. “Any ideas for getting out of here? I’ll boost you to the window, if you think you can fit through it.”

He’d have a better chance than Hawke, being considerably skinnier, but those were some awfully narrow windows. The elf tilted his head back, looking at the opening. “And you? I’d leave you trapped.”

Hawke shrugged. “I’ll manage. I’m pretty resourceful.”

He glanced at Hawke with narrowed eyes, as if offering to lend a hand had somehow made him  _ more _ suspicious. But before he could respond, another soft knock came at the door, accompanied by a different voice. “Messere? The guard-captain is here to see you.”

_ Oh, shit, what did we  _ do _ last night? _ No, wait: if the servants didn’t know strangers currently occupied the room, then it was their master the guard sought, not Hawke, right? If they’d broken into the home of someone currently wanted by the law, then didn’t the homeowner’s crimes kind of cancel out Hawke’s? Hawke could argue that with great confidence should the need arise. Unless, of course, this was a social visit, and they had actually managed to trespass against someone not only rich but well-connected too … Or maybe this wasn’t a case of mistaken identity and the guard had, in fact, tracked Hawke here after some indiscretion they didn’t remember themself. It would have to be pretty severe to warrant the captain’s personal attention.

Hawke gave up trying to puzzle out the circumstances: whatever had happened last night, getting caught by the guard in a stranger’s home -- in a stranger’s  _ clothes _ \-- was bad. And the servant still awaited an answer.

“I’ll be right out!” Hawke called, hoping the servant wouldn’t hear the stress in their voice. They turned to the elf. “Last call for a boost. And if you have any other ideas on how to get out of here, I would love to hear them.”

The elf reached up and touched the haft of the axe on his back. “I can think of one possibility.”

“Please do not fillet the maid.” Hawke supposed he had a point, though. If they moved fast enough and hit hard enough --  _ and if the Maker smiles on us _ \-- who could muster the sheer physical force to stop them?

It wasn’t a great idea, but since Hawke couldn’t fit through the window, they had to go out that door one way or another. Better to go of their own volition than get dragged out by the guard.

“I say we just make a run for it,” Hawke told the elf, who raised an eyebrow slightly at the “we.” But he didn't refuse. Hawke reached for the door. “Ready?”

After a long moment, the elf nodded, and Hawke threw the door open.

Hawke had to laugh at the look of utter bewilderment on the face of the guard-captain, a tall redhead, as the two of them came barrelling down the stairs.

“Hawke -- ” the woman began -- so the guard  _ was  _ looking for Hawke; a problem, but not one they could deal with right now. 

And then they were past her and Hawke caught a glimpse of their dog sitting up from where he’d lounged on the floor. Hawke whistled for him, grabbed the elf’s hand, pushed past an alarmed dwarf’s “Messere!” into an anteroom, and then they were out into the sunlight and home free.


	2. Chapter 2

Varric Tethras was having a perfectly nice morning until the captain of the city guard plopped down at his table in the Hanged Man and said, without preamble, “Hawke and Fenris ran out on me this morning, laughing all the way. Haven’t been able to find them since.”

“Whatever happened, I had nothing to do with it,” Varric said, just to cover his bases.

The woman scowled. “Very funny, Varric. If you see Hawke, let them know I’m not amused, would you? And I still need to talk to them.”

She didn’t wait for an answer: “Sure,” Varric muttered to her back as she walked away. The brief encounter had given him a lot to think about. Since when was he on first name terms with the captain of the city guard? For that matter, since when was that redhead the captain of the city guard, as her armor declared her to be? What had happened to old Jeven, and why hadn’t Varric heard about it before his replacement took office?

And who were Hawke and Fenris? Why did the guard expect him to have insight into the activities of two people he’d never heard of?

He didn’t have much time to wonder, as he soon had company again: a beautiful woman dressed as the very best kind of pirate slid onto the bench recently vacated by the guard-captain, with whom she formed a rather striking contrast.

“Who twisted the stick up Aveline’s ass?” the woman said, eyes sparkling, as Varric wondered distantly when people had stopped saying “hello” and introducing themselves. Must be a new trend. “Anything I should know about?”

“Good question,” Varric said, taking a leisurely drink of his wine. There was a limit to even his ability -- and, more importantly, willingness -- to stomach the Hanged Man’s fairly terrible ale. Now, should he tell this woman what the guard-captain had told him? His instinct was to keep information close to his chest, especially when he didn’t understand what it meant. But, on the other hand, maybe her reaction would tell him something, and he could certainly use  _ something _ .

The woman gave him an exaggerated simper, eyes wide and pleading, chest precisely angled to tempt and distract. “Come on, Varric. Do a friend a favor; don’t make me have to bother Aveline about it. She’ll shout at me, and I can hardly bear being shouted at.”

_ “Friend”? Woman, I don’t know you from Andraste _ . Though Varric doubted he could ever get the two mixed up, all things considered. He sighed as if convinced against his better judgment and said, “Apparently Hawke and Fenris ran away this morning.”

The woman’s eyes went wide, her shoulders dropping as she forgot her attempt at seduction, which Varric thought had been mostly a joke anyway. Then she grinned. “Guess they finally eloped.”

“Mm?” Varric said, pitching the single syllable to encourage her to go on.

The woman flipped her hair over her shoulder and put on an exaggerated pout. “And they didn’t even invite us. How rude.”

Varric smiled and chuckled a little, though he was disappointed too: she hadn’t given him much information. “Let me know if you hear from them? The guard seems to have decided this is my responsibility. I’ll be here, unless Bartrand calls me away.”

An odd expression came over the woman’s face at that. She looked at Varric for a moment as if trying to figure out whether he was joking -- he was, a little, but it was always a possibility -- and muttered, “I never understood …”

“Understanding Bartrand takes decades of practice.” Varric finished his breakfast and bade the woman farewell. Time to figure out how so much had gotten past him: he’d have to get upstairs to check his notes.

But when he did, he found himself distracted: he noticed almost immediately as he went to work that his papers were not where he’d left them. In fact, his papers were not  _ what _ he’d left them, either. While his basic organizational system remained in place, all of the actual information contained within -- everything from reports from his informants around the city to his current literary efforts -- had been supplanted by unfamiliar words … in his own handwriting.

Frowning, Varric sat down and set himself to reading the records of some eight years he couldn’t remember.

 

*

 

When the human finally let go of Fenris’ hand, he couldn’t help wondering why he’d let them take it in the first place. It had all happened so fast -- the madcap dash out of the house and then through a district clearly too wealthy and well-policed for Fenris to go unnoticed in, avoiding guards who looked at them in surprise but didn’t seem to have time to give chase or even shout before they were off again. The human took the lead but clearly had no idea where they were going; since Fenris didn’t either, he let them try and figure it out. Based perhaps on smell alone -- and with the apparent help of the dog, who seemed to grasp their desire to avoid the authorities -- they eventually found their way to worse and worse parts of town, and finally stopped after hopping down a sewer grate into a quiet, very shabby passage. No guards down here: that was about the only good thing Fenris could say for it.

The human went to lean against the wall, reconsidered based on the wall’s visual and olfactory properties, and simply stood as they grinned at Fenris like an absolute lunatic. “Well, that was fun.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t finding much about the situation  _ fun _ at all. But he decided to humor them: “Gets the blood pumping, I suppose.”

That mad grin widened. “What’s better than starting off the morning with a little exercise?”

_ Starting off the morning knowing where you are and what happened last night _ . An unpleasant feeling -- this one having nothing to do with the pungent smell -- washed over Fenris as he considered the possibilities, the logical conclusion he had to draw upon waking up in the arms of a stranger, knowing himself disinclined to such indiscretions, drunken or otherwise. But surely if he’d been forced into bed he’d remember on some level, or at least find signs of violence on his person -- he wouldn’t have gone quietly. And the truth was he felt better than he had in years, well-fed and -rested, clean and healthy, with fewer bruises that he expected for someone in his general situation, let alone after such events.

“My name’s Hawke,” his companion said, when it became clear he wasn’t going to answer their rhetorical question. “Use ‘they’ for me instead of ‘he’ or ‘she,’ please.”

He nodded. “My name is Fenris.”

“Nice to meet you.” They extended a hand, with a quite genuine smile, and after a moment’s hesitation -- and some confusion, though he hoped he hid it well -- he shook it. Somehow he found himself unable to believe Hawke had taken advantage of him, despite the potential evidence -- and if that were the case, why help him escape? Unless, of course, they had some greatly elaborate scheme in mind, but considering that the best escape plan they’d come up with was “run really fast” … If they were an enemy, perhaps the wisest course would be to stick around and keep an eye on them, try to figure out what they intended rather than let them vanish into the city and plot unseen.

“So, uh …” Hawke cast their gaze around the slimy passage. “This isn’t Ferelden, is it?”

Fenris shook his head. It wasn’t the small town in Antiva where he -- slightly fuzzily -- remembered stopping last, either. In fact, he had no idea where they were. Geography wasn’t exactly one of his strong points; he’d never needed it before his escape, just following Danarius wherever he went. Ever since, his major navigating principle had simply been  _ away _ : away from his pursuers, away from Minrathous, away from the Imperium.

Hawke let out a long, loud sigh, rubbing a hand over their face. “I am so lost and so, so shafted.”

The dog whuffed gently, as if concerned for its master, and Hawke looked down at it. “I bet  _ you  _ know how I got here.”

An enthusiastic, vaguely affirmative yip. Hawke shook their head. “Now would be a great time for you to just break down and talk, you know.”

Tilting its head, the dog gave Hawke a look of ostentatious innocence, as if butter would not melt in its mouth. As they absently scratched the animal’s ears, Hawke turned to Fenris. “I don’t suppose you have a handy explanation for this?”

He shook his head. He might have  _ almost _ managed to explain his own circumstances -- some nefarious plan by his pursuers -- but Hawke’s presence made absolutely no sense. Certainly not if they were genuinely a confused Fereldan soldier, and Fenris found himself believing them. They’d had a good point when they’d said that if they were lying, they would have picked something more plausible.

“Wouldn’t be a bad time for you to break down and talk, either,” Hawke told Fenris, half-joking.

“And say what?” Fenris asked.

Hawke shrugged. “A proclamation of undying love would be nice, but failing that, I’d settle for some small talk. Have you tried mentioning the weather?”

Fenris couldn’t help chuckling a little. Quickly returning to deadpan, he replied, “At the moment, it is filthy with a strong chance of sewage.”

Hawke snorted. “You’re not wrong. So maybe we should keep moving.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

Hawke considered the question. “Maybe we can find someone who’ll do us the favor of telling us where we are. We should be careful, though. I’m not exactly dressed for adventures in a bad part of town.”

They gestured down at their shirt and skirt, which were not only a tad impractical but clearly expensive: not the raiment of someone accustomed to hanging out in sewers. Of course, given his own appearance, Fenris could hardly criticize anyone else for looking out of place -- though at least he was in armor.

“Speaking of which, I certainly wouldn’t mind finding some supplies.” Hawke scratched their chin as they spoke. Their tone suggested they were thinking aloud rather than expecting Fenris to respond. “Depends on how long I expect to be lost here, I guess, but considering I’m apparently in the wrong Blighted country, it might be wise to take the long-term view.”

Hawke shook their head and refocused on Fenris. “What about you? Any plans you’d like to share?”

“None whatsoever,” Fenris said truthfully, only now turning his thoughts from the mystery of the recent past and demands of the present to the future. He’d like to figure out what had happened last night, but he might not have a chance to investigate: he had to assume that Danarius was still searching for him, whether or not the magister was responsible for last night. Normally he wouldn’t have questioned whether he was, but if Danarius’ hunters had caught him, he’d have expected to wake up dead or in chains -- he never would have escaped so easily. Assuming, of course, that he had escaped, and wasn’t currently playing right into some trap.

“Well, I figure we find out where we are first,” Hawke said, breaking through Fenris’ increasingly dark thoughts. “Which, unless you have some trick up your sleeve -- and, since you don’t have sleeves, I’m assuming not -- means asking someone. Preferably someone who won’t immediately stab us in the back or report us to the guard.”

Fenris nodded. Asking around wouldn’t have been his first choice, but he doubted they would stumble upon a helpful sign detailing where they were. And if Hawke wanted to do the talking, all the better.

“Right.” Hawke looked down at the dog. “C’mon, boy, let’s find some nice, nonthreatening people to talk to.”

The dog barked and started off down the corridor, and Hawke followed, while Fenris wondered if taking all of one’s navigational information from a dog was common practice in Ferelden. From what he’d heard about the place, it probably was. He started after Hawke, relieved that they’d led the way without question, saving him the trouble of making things awkward by refusing to turn his back on them. He still didn’t trust them, however friendly they might seem.

They came out of the passage into a larger underground room, where three bedraggled individuals -- two male elves and a human woman -- busily searched a shoulder-high pile of refuse. Fenris could have told from the smell that it contained at least one corpse even if he hadn’t spotted a bloodless hand sticking out from under grimy fabric in one corner. As the dog’s paws squelched through a puddle on the muddy floor, the scavengers looked up, eyes wary, clearly deciding whether to flee. Apparently their find was lucrative enough to keep them from instantly bolting.

“Hello!” Hawke said, voice overflowing with friendly cheer. “My friend and I may have made travel plans from the depths of our cups last night -- I’d count it as a real favor if you could tell me where we are, exactly.”

The three of them seemed more dubious about the word “friend” than the rest of Hawke’s flimsy story: Fenris could feel them looking at Hawke’s clothes and his ears and slotting him into the category of “servant,” maybe “bodyguard,” given the axe.

“You’re in Darktown now,” the woman said, looking at Hawke with the contempt of the overworked poor for the idle rich.

“Not for long,” one of the elves muttered, giving Hawke a more avaricious look. Fenris shifted, raising his hand as if stretching and yet clearly making it halfway to the axe haft on his back. He doubted these three were truly a threat -- they didn’t have an air of violence about them -- but he felt sure that they would be delighted to loot Hawke’s corpse, and his own, after some more capable predator took them down. Perhaps they would even act to hasten that outcome: Fenris could imagine there were those who would not mind being informed that someone rich and stupid had wandered into their territory, who might even toss the scavengers a copper or two for that information.

Instead of wavering, Hawke’s smile widened slightly, insistently, their eyes turning flinty. “And that would be Darktown where? You’d be surprised how many wagoneers will let the heavily intoxicated buy passage.”

One of the elves snorted, amused either by the situation described or by Hawke’s inadequate lie. The other said, “Kirkwall. You’re in Kirkwall.”

Hawke’s brow furrowed at that information, but they kept their voice light. “And how would we get  _ out _ of Kirkwall?”

The first elf shrugged. The woman said, “Look, standing around chatting buys no bread -- we have coin to earn.”

Presumably if that coin were to materialize in Hawke’s hands the three scavengers would have no problem guiding them out of the sewers -- but Hawke didn’t seem to have a purse on them, so they just said, “So you do. Well, thank you, and have a lovely day.”

Fenris could hear the scavengers muttering to each other as he and Hawke -- and the dog -- continued on, down a flight of stairs and into a long, open passage whose walls didn’t reach the ceiling high above.

“Kirkwall,” Hawke said, quietly. “Hm. My mother has family here. That’s an interesting coincidence -- or maybe it isn’t.”

“You were staying with them?” Fenris asked, suspicious again. If that were the case, why would Hawke claim not to know where they were?

“Not as far as I know.” Hawke shrugged. “But there’s a lot I don’t know, apparently. That could explain … Well, we should look for them. The Amell estate -- they’re nobles. They might know how I got here, and even if they don’t, maybe they’ll be willing to help out a prodigal grandchild.”

Fenris made a noncommittal noise, feeling cold. He’d thought Hawke a hapless, lost soldier, not nobility. Perhaps there was some perfectly innocent explanation for the discrepancy, or maybe he’d just found a hole in their story -- and if they’d lied to him once, he had to assume they’d been involved in whatever misfortune had left him baffled and naked in that bedroom.

“So I guess we’re going to have to go back to the nice part of town after all,” Hawke said, at the exact moment that a crossbow bolt flew by their shoulder. They glanced down, more surprised than afraid, and reached automatically for a weapon that wasn’t on their back before remembering the dagger at their waist. By the time they got it out of its sheath, Fenris had already drawn his axe and charged after the archer, who stood three steps up a narrow stairway. “Fenris -- watch out!”

He didn’t need the warning: Fenris took a step back as the archer smoothly slipped behind a massive swordsman. The man grinned -- several of his teeth were missing, the others yellow -- slowly and luxuriously lifting his blade from his back as if he had all the time in the world. “Should’ve told your master not to come here, kni -- ”

Fenris disemboweled him. It seemed quicker than explaining that Hawke wasn’t his master.

There were more of them, of course. Some half a dozen armored bodies sprang at them -- out of the woodwork, it felt like. For a second, Fenris found himself almost confused by the axe in his hands -- he was more accustomed to a sword -- but he adjusted quickly. Channeling the lyrium in his skin helped: it came to life even brighter and stronger than he expected, and the thugs’ surprise at the sight won him a moment of breathing room. Soon he fell into a familiar rhythm, hacking at his enemies and deflecting their own attacks with the handle of the axe. Well, most of their attacks; blood ran down his arms, his chest, but he could keep this up … 

_ Hawke.  _ Unarmored, barely armed --  _ have to help them _ . Later, it would strike him that his first thought was to defend them, not to worry whether they might stab him in the back. At the moment, though, he just spun to see Hawke cutting the throat of an archer, an arrow sticking out of their arm. They grabbed a second dagger from the archer’s belt as the body fell.  _ They’re all right _ . Fenris could help them best by making their enemies focus on him as the greater threat.

A sword plunged deep into his thigh, his reward for getting distracted mid-battle. He returned his attention to his own assailants, teeth gritted against the pain. 

“Got your back.” Hawke’s voice kept him from cutting down them down as they moved into the space behind him, catching a blade meant for his spine with a sword they must have taken from one of the corpses Fenris had recently made. Accustomed to fighting alone, he almost warned them off, but he found himself adapting automatically, disregarding everything behind him -- another thing that later struck him as dangerous; without thinking, he’d trusted not only in Hawke’s intentions but also their ability to defend him.

Hawke’s elbow nudged him and he instinctively spun, swinging his axe out in a huge arc as, as smoothly as if they’d practiced this together, they stepped into the place he’d been and stabbed in the throat a surprised thug who raised his sword to catch the axe blow he’d expected. Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris saw Hawke’s dog mauling another archer. They were almost through here -- they had perhaps two opponents left.

Of course it wasn’t that simple. Even as he counted, a maul crashed into his ribs, knocking aside his attempt to deflect it. His feet left the floor for an instant before his body crashed down onto it in a heap.

“Fenris!”

Even rattled as he was, Fenris managed to roll away from the maul’s next downwards arc, so that the blow that would have staved in his sternum only caught his hand. He screamed as he felt every little bone in his hand pulverized.  _ At least it won’t hurt for long _ , he thought, stupidly, as he realized that the maul’s next swing would put him out of his misery -- he couldn’t muster the strength to move -- 

With a wordless cry of fury, Hawke ducked in under the raised maul and plunged their sword up to the hilt in the warrior’s chest.

That was the last of them.

Hawke came to Fenris’ side as he tried to sit up, helping him upright. “Careful. That last hit looked pretty bad.”

“I’m fine,” Fenris said, automatically, and then looked in dismay at his hand. He clearly was not fine.

“I’ll see if our  _ friends _ here brought anything good for wounds,” Hawke said, moving to search the corpses. Fenris nodded; he watched them blankly for a second before he realized that he might not have to rely on the preparedness of their would-be robbers. When he’d put on his belt this morning, he’d thought he’d spotted …

Yes, thank the Maker. In the place he usually kept them, when he could scrounge any up, he found several small vials of elfroot solution. He downed one at once, feeling his wounds knit back together -- but his hand only seared with pain. The delicate bones were too askew, he realized, looking at it with a sinking feeling. The potion had only mashed them together in a mess of pulpy flesh, almost making it worse. He couldn’t fight like this.

“Found some -- ah, you’ve got your own.” Hawke, returning, saw that he’d already taken a potion and drank the one they held themself, healing their own wounds. “Got some coin, too, and our former friends have some weapons and armor I’d like to pick up -- oh.”

They’d noticed his hand. Dropping to their haunches, they gave it a closer look with a sympathetic wince. “That’s not good. You need a proper healer for that.”

A mage, they meant. Fenris shook his head. “I’ll manage.”

Hawke frowned at him. “You can’t -- ”

“ _ I’ll manage _ ,” Fenris repeated. He’d been hurt worse, though he suspected this was not something that would get better with time and whatever interludes of rest he could snatch. He glanced at Hawke, saw what seemed to be genuine concern on their face, and tried to moderate his tone. “We have little hope of finding a healer, let alone one who would treat me.”

The dog barked, poking its nose around Hawke’s side. They patted it absently. Sniffing at Fenris’ hand, the dog barked again, then took Hawke’s hand gently in its teeth and tried to tug them away.

“What?” Hawke said, looking at the dog, who danced around them as if trying to get them to follow it. “Jay, unless you know where we can find a good healer …”

The dog yipped an affirmative and wiggled its hindquarters. Hawke blinked. “You can find us a healer?”

The dog gave another positive bark and started off down the corridor, then circled back around as if asking what they were waiting for.

Hawke looked at Fenris. “I mean, it’s worth a try. Please, Fenris. You need help, and it’s not like we have any other pressing destinations.”

Fenris grimaced. He found the idea of taking directions from a dog somewhat ridiculous, but it had worked so far -- besides, they had no better options. And as much as he might like to, he couldn’t deny that he wouldn’t get far with his hand in its current state -- or any state it would develop into without intervention. If he couldn’t swing a sword, he was dead. With that as the alternative … “Fine. Let us go find this healer.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Guard-captain,” Varric said, as sheepish as Aveline had ever heard him, as he stood in the doorway to her office.

Aveline raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not so angry that Hawke has to send you to bullshit me, Varric.”

“That’s not  _ exactly _ what I’m here about.”

Aveline let out a long, rather exasperated breath. “Come in, then, and spit it out.”

Stepping into the office, Varric let the door close behind him. “When you came in this morning asking me about Hawke and Fenris, I had no idea who you were talking about.”

“Very funny,” Aveline tried, though this seemed a bit esoteric for Varric’s sense of humor.

Varric shook his head. “No joke. Had to go upstairs and look at my records to figure it out. Captain, I  _ didn’t remember _ who they were -- or any other recent history. I woke up this morning thinking it was 9:29 Dragon.”

Feeling her brow starting to knit in the kind of frown that would give her a headache later, Aveline forced it to relax, forced her voice to remain light: “Did you hit your head? Drink too much last night?”

“If I’d drunk enough to black out eight years, I doubt I’d be on my feet this morning. As for hitting my head, how would I know, if I can’t remember yesterday?”

Aveline sighed. “Well, you should see Anders -- he’s our healer. An absolute ass, but he’s good at what he does.”

Varric nodded. “I’m partially caught up. Had a lot of reading to do this morning, but at least I finally got some return on investment for all that ink and paper. But, Captain? Just a thought, but if some of your -- our -- other friends are also acting strange … Maybe I’m not the only one with a wobbly grasp on the past.”

Aveline was starting to get a very bad feeling about this. She rubbed her eyes. “I think I’d better track down Hawke and Fenris sooner rather than later.”

“Let me help,” Varric said.

 

*

 

“What do you know? Jay found us a healer.” Hawke thought they could be excused for sounding a little self-satisfied, considering Fenris’ obvious though largely unstated doubts about the entire plan.

“Hooray,” Fenris said with absolutely no enthusiasm. His good hand went to his sword hilt as he watched blue magic settle into a ragged old man’s broken shin -- and it was a sword, now, because despite his injury, the two of them had taken the time to scavenge equipment from their dead attackers. He’d reluctantly ceded the enchanted axe to Hawke, picking a rather nice sword for himself, and Hawke had scrounged up a halfway decent set of armor. With that, plus the money and potions they’d taken off the bodies, things were looking up -- if they could only get Fenris’ hand healed.

Hawke put a hand on Fenris’ raised arm, trying to get him to relax, but too late: the blond man administering the healing had seen them. His eyes widening, he lunged for a staff leaning against a pillar and leveled it at them.

Hawke’s gentle, soothing touch on Fenris’ wrist became a desperate grab as he tried to draw his sword. Shaking them off, he gave Hawke the most fearsome glare they’d ever seen. At their side, Jay barked sharply.

“What do you want?” the mage demanded, blue light gathering at the tip of his staff.

“We’re not here to fight!” Hawke said, feeling as though they spoke as much to Fenris as to the mage. Their eyes flicked between the two men. “We need a healer. Heard we could find one here. We can pay.”

They couldn’t pay  _ much _ , not as much as his talents probably warranted, but Hawke had to hope that an apostate living in a sewer would take what he could get. And that the promise of coin would placate him: it did usually work wonders in winning someone’s cooperation, and if there wasn’t enough money in Hawke’s purse to back it up, well, that was a problem for once the mage put his staff down.

“Funny way to ask for help, walking with your sword half-drawn,” the man said, unconvinced, his eyes on Fenris. His other patients and their hangers-on seemed to share his doubts: most of them had fled the room, though a couple burly individuals hung back, one conspicuously cracking his knuckles. Great, the healer had friends.

“We’ve had a bit of a  _ day _ ,” Hawke said with a self-deprecating smile. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t a very hospitable part of town. Call it an instinctive reaction.”

They turned to Fenris, lowering their voice. “This is the part where you relax and try to look harmless.”

“Is it?” Fenris muttered, also unconvinced, also keeping his eyes on his potential enemy.

“If you want your hand healed, it is.” Hawke put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Fenris, it’s all right. If he turns on us, well, I have plenty of experience dealing with mages.”

They weren’t going to mention that they’d trained as a templar in their youth -- first imitating the knights`their father sent them to spy on, then impressing them enough to receive proper instruction -- not when the apostate might catch the word “templar.”

“So do I,” Fenris said, with a certain bitter note in his voice. But he slowly dropped his hand from his sword.

“See? Everything’s fine.” Hawke smiled winningly at the mage, and he gradually lowered his staff as well. He and Fenris still stared suspiciously at each other, but no one was bleeding or on fire, so Hawke figured things were going pretty well. “I’m Hawke, and this is Fenris. His hand is hurt.”

“Anders,” the mage said. He hesitated, then leaned his staff against the column again. “I can’t heal him from the doorstep. Come on in and let me take a look.”

Hawke touched Fenris’ arm as the two of them walked into the clinic: soothing, they hoped. He sat gingerly on the edge of one of the rather sad cots that served this place as sickbeds, holding his injured hand to his chest.

“Oh, that looks bad,” Anders said, drawing closer. His tone was softer now, as if with a patient in front of him, he’d forgotten his earlier wariness. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, glancing at Hawke, Fenris raised his injured hand. Anders reached for it.

“Don’t touch me, mage,” Fenris snarled, pulling away and wincing slightly as the motion jarred his hand. His tone turned the last word into a deadly insult.

“This  _ mage _ happens to be your only chance at ever playing piano again,” Anders said, with almost equal hostility, “so let me work and if you’re good maybe your friend will buy you a treat.”

Fenris glanced from Anders to Hawke, eyes gleaming like a trapped animal’s. Hawke gave him an encouraging smile (they hoped). Slowly, Fenris extended his hand again; Anders rolled his eyes but took it gently, to avoid hurting him. Looking at Hawke, Fenris raised an eyebrow and spoke as if nothing else had happened: “You have money?”

“I’ll steal you a treat,” Hawke offered. Fenris’ lips twitched -- a precursor to a smile, they hoped, and not greater anger.

“So,” Hawke said, casually, as Anders worked, carefully reshaping Fenris’ bone and muscles back to their proper form. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about injuries that could affect someone’s memory, would you? Beyond a night’s drinking, I mean. What would it take to, say, make someone forget a few weeks or months?”

Hawke could feel Fenris watching them, and they didn’t think they imagined Anders’ surprised pause, the way he went still and stiff for just a second. For a long moment he was silent, his magic still sinking into Fenris’ hand; Hawke almost elaborated on the question. Finally he released Fenris: “All done.”

Fenris leaned away as he tested the motion of his hand, fingers curling and uncurling. He seemed satisfied, because he stood, stepped a few feet away -- clearly trying to get away from Anders -- and started putting his gauntlet back on.

Anders turned to Hawke. “You want to know about memory?”

“That is why I asked,” Hawke said, amiably.

“Is there a specific case you’re wondering about, or is this just for curiosity’s sake?”

Hawke hesitated, then figured  _ why not? _ “Well, let me just say this: as far as I know, I was in Ferelden yesterday.”

Anders’ eyebrows flew up, his eyes widening.

“I know I didn’t actually fly here on dragonback,” Hawke explained, “but I don’t remember -- ”

“No, I believe you,” Anders said. “I woke up this morning thinking I was in the Circle on Lake Calenhad.”

“Antiva,” Fenris offered, quietly. Then, after a moment’s contemplative silence: “Blood magic can affect one’s memory.”

“That’s right,” Anders said, sounding almost surprised. Either the idea hadn’t occurred to him yet -- it had crossed Hawke’s mind, briefly -- or he didn’t expect it from that source. “So maybe there’s a maleficar sneaking around -- I still can’t see the point of snatching memories from random strangers, then leaving them alone.”

“Sometimes mages are simply mad,” Fenris suggested, but he didn’t sound like he considered it a likely answer: more of a dig at mages, Hawke figured.

“So are elves, sometimes,” Anders retorted, glaring.

Fenris seemed about to reply, the conversation dangling over an abyss of shallow bickering. Hawke cleared their throat. “What if we weren’t strangers?”

Anders frowned. “What makes you think that?”

“Fenris and I woke up, uh …” Hawke felt Fenris’ eyes boring into them and tried not to look at him. Their pause drew Anders’ attention; he raised his eyebrows, and Hawke hurried on, suspecting that the longer they spent trying to think of a delicate phrasing -- the more reticent they seemed, the more they blushed -- the more salacious his imagination would get. “Together. We assumed some outside force had brought us together -- the same reason we couldn’t remember how we’d got there -- but what if we knew each other already? What if we went to sleep in the course of our … normal lives … and woke up …”

They couldn’t go on under Fenris’ increasingly blank stare. Less than pleased by the idea that he had, at some forgotten point, chosen to sleep with Hawke, was he? Disappointing, a little insulting, but Hawke supposed they couldn’t blame him. The prospect of navigating a relationship with someone who seemed a complete stranger was daunting. As for Hawke, they could easily see themself choosing to spend a night -- or two, or more -- with Fenris. He was a  _ very _ attractive man -- not greatly inclined to chatter, perhaps, but hardly dull, and they’d forgiven worse faults for a pretty face.

“In a mansion?” Fenris said, seizing on the other problem with this scenario. “If that is your typical environment, I find it hard to imagine a common ground on which we would have met.”

Hawke snorted a little at that. He wasn’t wrong. “Party guests? The guard-captain knew to look for me there. Or we snuck in -- not a great life choice, but if there was alcohol involved …”

They had to stop again, thanks to the particularly wooden look on Fenris’ face at the idea of the kind of drunken escapades that might have ended in a tryst in an aristocrat’s bed. It would be an unusual evening’s entertainment for Hawke, but not completely unimaginable.

Anders looked between the two of them with a smirk. “So, you had all this fun and  _ then _ ran afoul of a maleficar while you were ‘together’? Or did you start the party by pissing off a blood mage?”

“If we knew, we wouldn’t be here,” Fenris said, then paused, as if trying to puzzle out whether he should have spoken out against the image of a hostile mage catching the two of them in bed.

“And where am I in all this?” Anders grew more serious, though he did cast a glance at Hawke and add, “You two woke up in a mansion, and all I got was a sewer -- I can’t see how we’d’ve encountered the same maleficar.”

Hawke shrugged. “Blood mages move in mysterious ways. Or maybe there’s more than one going around stealing people’s memories. Either way, I think we should stick together until we get to the bottom of this.”

They almost immediately regretted the suggestion, as Anders and Fenris cast each other brief looks of utter loathing. Perhaps fortunately, before they could start arguing again, a man in ragged clothes slipped through the door and said in a hoarse voice, “The guard-captain’s coming for you again, Anders.”

Anders and Hawke swore almost in unison. The man nodded, as if this were an intelligible response, and said, “She’ll be here in a minute or so.”

With his bad news delivered, he gave Anders a wave like a salute and slid back out of the room. Presumably he didn’t relish the idea of running into the guard-captain either.

“Is there a back exit?” Hawke asked.

“No idea,” Anders replied. Right. No memories.

Hawke sighed, ran a hand over their face, and said, “All right. I’ll go distract the guard while you two make your escape.”

Fenris’ eyebrows shot up. “No.”

“No!” Anders said, at exactly the same time. The two of them exchanged disgusted glances, clearly displeased to agree on anything.

“Look,” Hawke said, fully prepared to argue this, though they hardly had time for a long debate. “I’m the one they’re looking for, and it’s not like I’ve never spent a night or two in lockup before. I can handle myself and I can handle the guard. You two have a lot more on the line. If you get caught running around causing mayhem, you might end up Tranquil” -- this at Anders -- “or dead” -- to Fenris, whose pointed ears made just the weapon on his back a death sentence.

“He said she was coming for  _ me _ ,” Anders insisted.

“All the more reason you should get out of here before the templars show up,” Hawke replied with willfully poor logic.

“I will not abandon you to take the fall for …” Fenris hesitated.

“For whatever we did? We don’t even know yet whether we’re talking ‘thousand-foot cliff’ or ‘tiny step’ here.” Hawke glanced between Fenris and Anders; an idea hit them. “Look, I’m willing to bet that being caught with you two will make things worse for me. Most city guards I’ve run afoul of frown on consorting with elves and apostates. If you really want to help me, then get yourselves to safety.”

Hawke could see that neither man was fully convinced, but they didn’t have  _ time _ \-- Jay’s ears had perked up, his tail wagging slightly. Someone was coming.

“Jay, go with Fenris,” Hawke said. They gave Fenris a serious look. “I’m trusting you to look after my dog. That’s practically a life debt, in Fereldan terms. Don’t get yourself caught or killed, all right? You either, Anders. I’ll deal with the guard and see you soon -- Jay will know how to find me.”

And then, before either of them could continue arguing -- though Anders opened his mouth -- Hawke turned and walked out of the clinic.

There were only two of them, which made Hawke’s pulse quicken:  _ I might make it out of this yet _ . Rather than a full complement of city guard, they faced only the captain, a tall redhead, and a clean-shaven dwarf in civilian clothes. The captain looked competent -- her weapons had clearly seen regular use -- and her equipment was better than Hawke’s, but they were  _ very  _ good; they might still stand a chance against her. Though the dwarf’s large crossbow did worry them.

The guard-captain looked Hawke up and down, frowning slightly. “Where’s Fenris?”

“Who?” Hawke said, quite convincingly, as their heart sank.  _ So they’re after him too. What did we do? _

The guard-captain rolled her eyes and shifted her weight: her pose was relaxed, casual. She didn’t look poised for a fight. If Hawke attacked now … They couldn’t shake a deep suspicion that assaulting the guard-captain would only toss the problem down the road -- that the charges against them would only multiply if they did manage to defeat her and escape. “You can’t bullshit me. I saw you together  _ this morning _ .”

Hawke shrugged. “The elf? We split up. He wasn’t exactly friendly; ran off first chance he got.”

The captain’s frown deepened, a crease appearing between her eyebrows, and Hawke saw her mouth a curse. Feeling a spark of victory, Hawke forced themself not to smile.  _ Can’t bullshit you, can I? _

And at that moment, just when everything was looking up, Fenris crashed through the clinic’s wall, thrown through the air by something within. Glowing brightly, he hit the ground hard, though he didn’t lose his grip on his sword. With a sense of impending doom, Hawke turned their head to see Anders, also glowing, step through the hole, staff in hand and a snarl on his face. The dog followed, looking to Hawke for direction.

“I left you two alone for  _ one minute _ !” Hawke cried, unable to help themself.

The guard-captain’s hand went to the haft of her mace, and if she hadn’t been ready for a fight before, she was now. “Anders, stand down!”

_ She knows him too? Does that mean … ? _ Hawke brushed away a half-formed idea as the tip of Anders’ staff flashed and Fenris screamed, the air around him twisting and tearing at him.  _ Shit. Shit! _ Hawke ran to his side, axe in hand, reaching for the quiet place inside them where their templar training had carved out a fundamental silence that swallowed magic. They expanded that silence outward, pushing it against Anders’ magic. Released, Fenris staggered, then turned that stagger into a determined walk forward, towards Anders.

“Wait!” Hawke said, hurrying after him and grabbing his shoulder, desperately searching for a way to defuse the situation --  _ can I nullify Anders’ … whatever that is? What is  _ with him _? _ Sure, he and Fenris clearly didn’t like each other, but what had managed to happen in the last sixty seconds to turn Anders so murderous? Not to mention that strange glow …  _ Does everyone here just glow sometimes? _

Fenris looked back at Hawke, his expression mixed confusion and anger -- mostly anger. “He’s a demon!”

“Uh …” It was a reasonable enough conclusion, one Hawke couldn’t really argue with, as much as they wanted to. Blast it, they  _ liked _ Anders. They fumbled for a response and came up with, “We don’t know that. And we owe him, for your hand -- we have to try and help him.”

_ Help him  _ how _?  _ Hawke wondered, but that could come after they convinced Fenris not to summarily decapitate him.

Before Fenris could respond -- his expression suggested that answer would be negative -- the guard-captain, who had fallen off Hawke’s list of priorities, suddenly rocketed back to relevance when she smashed Anders in the face with her shield, knocking him to the ground. His glow flickered.

“Stay down, Anders, for your own good,” the captain said.

“What …” Anders sounded groggy, half-conscious; for a moment he looked normal again, blood on his face. Then he glanced up, spotted Fenris and Hawke approaching; his eyes focused on Hawke. His face twisted in a feral snarl, riven by lines of blue light like cracks in dry ground, and he roared in a voice not his own: “ _ Templar! _ ”

“Oh, shit,” Hawke muttered, as Anders dragged himself to his feet, moving more like a puppet than a man. He sent a bolt of frost hurtling at Hawke, but the guard-captain caught it on her shield, ice cracking on its surface.

The woman glanced over at Hawke and Fenris, keeping her shield up. “If you can talk him down, Hawke, now is the time.”

“I’ll try anything once,” Hawke replied, putting their axe away, to a disapproving noise from Fenris. They dropped their templar channeling, too, since that seemed only to enrage Anders, and stepped between him and the guard-captain, hands raised placatingly. “Anders, it’s me, it’s Hawke -- I’m not a templar. Come on, you know me.”

_ Why would that work? We met an hour ago. For all he knows, I  _ am _ an undercover templar. _ But Anders’ face cleared, though he looked confused and sounded fuzzy. “Hawke?”

“That’s right, it’s me. You need to calm down, all right? Just take it easy.”

Anders looked at Hawke helplessly, eyes pleading. “Hawke, I think I’m possessed.”

What did you  _ say _ to that? They couldn’t tell him otherwise. And possession wasn’t exactly something you recovered from, was it? They settled on, “You have to fight it, all right, Anders? You can’t just let it take you.”

“Right.” Determination came into Anders’ eyes, and he seemed to recover himself. He glanced around; as he took in Fenris and the guard-captain, his face hardened, but he stayed non-glowing, so Hawke would take it. “I’m … I’m fine.”

The guard-captain stepped back, lowering her shield and mace, though she didn’t put either of them away. She looked a bit skeptical. Fenris looked far more than skeptical; he didn’t move or lower his sword. Clearly the “decapitation” possibility was still on his mind.

“It’s fine,” Hawke said, in a gingerly soothing tone, glancing between Fenris and Anders. “We’re all fine. No harm done.”

“To  _ you _ ,” Fenris muttered: bruises were already rising on his arms.

“It was an accident for which  _ someone’s  _ going to apologize because we are  _ in this together _ ,  _ right _ ?” Hawke said.

Anders looked at Fenris. Fenris looked at Anders. Both of them looked at Hawke.

“Sorry,” Anders muttered.

“Hmph,” Fenris growled, lowering his sword, the blue glow fading from his skin.

Hawke let out a long breath.

“If that’s all settled …” began the dwarf from the crossbow, from behind them, where he’d apparently been watching them struggle this entire time.

“Oh, shit, the guard,” Hawke said, looking at the guard-captain standing not three feet from them and remembering that they were supposed to be fleeing arrest.

“Wait,” the captain said. “Hawke -- ”

“Sorry, we have to go,” Hawke said, grabbing Anders’ arm with one hand and Fenris’ hand with the other. “Come on, Jay.”

“I’m not here to arrest you!” the captain said, as the dog looked between her and Hawke in confusion, but Anders was already running, and Hawke wasn’t going to stop him, not after what they’d just seen. However forgiving the guard-captain might be, they had to imagine Kirkwall’s templars would feel a little differently, if they knew what he was. Whatever he was.

“Sorry!” Hawke threw over their shoulder again. “Better luck next time!”

The last thing they heard from the guard-captain was a growl of frustration.


End file.
